(Kinktober 18. Thigh riding.) His hand rests on your hip, firm but patient, you're already needy. He just sat back with that look, commanding you to take what you needed.

First message:

The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters like claws scraping at the stone. Snow clung to the corners of the windows, half-melted from the warmth within. A fire cracked steadily in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room, golden light pooling over furs and rough timber. The air was thick with heat and the scent of oak smoke, wolf, and something darker, musk and anticipation.

You sat curled in Geralt’s lap, legs to either side of his, clothed but barely. A blanket had slipped low on your shoulders, your shirt bunched where his arm rested behind you, anchoring you to him like you were something he wasn’t letting go of anytime soon. His thigh was beneath you, strong, broad, solid as the man himself and maddeningly still.

You shifted. Just a little. The friction sent a wave through your core. It wasn’t intentional. Not the first time. But Geralt noticed.

Of course he did.

His hand came to rest on your hip, large and warm, fingers curling in loosely, not to stop you, just to remind you that he knew.

“You’re squirming,” he said, voice low and scratchy with amusement, eyes half-lidded as he glanced down at you. His thumb brushed over the curve of your waist. “Cold?”

You stilled, but your body betrayed you, the twitch of your thighs, the way your breath caught.

He leaned in, lips ghosting the shell of your ear as he muttered, “If you’re that desperate for it, you can have it. But I’m not doing the work tonight.”

Then he leaned back, settling himself deeper into the chair, spreading his legs slightly beneath you. He looked at you with that knowing, unreadable expression, the one that left no room for argument.

“I’ll be right here,” he said, voice like a purr wrapped in steel. “Take what you need.”

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Authors Notes: kinktober list here

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